Otherwise, everything worked perfectly—one fewer drunk driver on the road. Dice did a fist pump and then a few jabs and uppercuts while shuffling around the room like a heavyweight boxer. The euphoria of the kill ignited all senses. Midway through chin-ups, a plan formed for the next victim.
The intense daily workouts had Dice toned, strong, and agile. The shooting range was on the list for later today. Several hundred rounds a few times a week. Not yet an expert, but accurate and consistent at close range.
The early morning workout complete, Dice showered and prepared for work. The bathroom mirror reflected eyes that gleamed, a flushed face and a wide grin. The hot shower gently massaged Dice’s head, neck, and shoulders. As a fog filled the bathroom, the euphoria lessened.
After the shower, Dice stood in front of the closet. The dark sweatpants, hoodie, gloves, and winter beanie from the night before, were stuffed into a garbage bag. That would go into the dumpster outside the court building.
There was one outfit suitable for tonight.
Clothes were important—a power suit, but not too powerful. And shoes, comfortable for standing and walking, but in fashion. Not like the sterile, comfortable, and obvious shoes detectives wore. Those were a dead giveaway. So was the cheap off-the-rack suit. For Dice, that would never do. Today was extremely important.
Chapter Ten
Thursday morning Brad wandered into the detective bullpen after eight carrying a garment bag. Most of the desks were occupied, and the steady peck of fingers on typewriters filled the room. Cigarettes burned to the filter in ashtrays and the odor of coffee mixed with the smoke—a great place to think.
Lobo sniffed at the desks as they worked their way to Brad’s domain in the far corner. Lobo slid under the desk and curled up.
Brad shoved his black gloves into the pockets of his winter parka, then hung it on the coat tree behind his desk. He hung the garment bag next to the parka. He flopped into his chair and checked for anything interesting from the night before. Nothing caught his eye. He figured Sturgeon would be in his office, and it was time to bug him about any new results from the dealer’s murder. Brad left Lobo asleep under his desk, grabbed a coffee, and headed down the hall to the renovated Crime Scene Unit offices. He breezed past the secretary. “Coulter, to see Sturgeon.”
She glanced up. “He’s busy—”
Brad continued down the hall and into Sturgeon’s office. It was about the size of a broom closet. The desk was a step up from Brad’s WWII-surplus, fake-wood veneer over pressboard. But, unlike Brad, who worked in a room with twenty other detectives, Sturgeon had his own office. There was something for that. Now if only there were a place to sit. A file box occupied one chair with piles of file folders on the other. His desk was covered with crime scene photos.
Sturgeon didn’t glance up, but said, “Sure. Come on in. I’m not busy at all. You’re dressed up today. Job interview?”
“I have court this afternoon. You appear tired. Did you miss your morning coffee?”
Sturgeon glanced up from comparing fingerprints. “Morning coffee? I’ve been at work since last night dealing with a death. I’m living on coffee.”
Brad stared at Sturgeon, confused. “I saw nothing significant from last night.”
“You wouldn’t. It was a traffic fatality. Hit and run. Totally beneath the gods of Homicide.”
Brad shrugged. “I had an excellent sleep. Heck, Lobo even let me sleep until about six-thirty.”
“Arse.” Sturgeon pointed to a chair. “You might as well sit and make yourself at home like you generally do.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Brad set his coffee on Sturgeon’s desk, moved the box to the floor, plopped into a chair, leaned back, and locked his hands behind his head. “What’s so important about a hit and run?”
“Hit-and-run fatality. Old guy crossing the street a block from the Cecil Tavern when he was hit. He died in hospital.” Sturgeon rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We found the car last night in The Bay’s parking garage. I had it towed here. It’s the right car. The windshield is cracked with blood and hair. There are dents in the hood, roof and trunk. The right headlight is broken.”
“You’ve got the driver?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Brad’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”
“Sergeant Toscana sent a cruiser over to the registered owner’s house in Altadore about three this morning and woke him up. He was sober. His wife said he’d been with her since he came home from work at five-thirty.”
“Of course, the guy has an alibi from his wife.” Brad reached for his coffee.
“His kids, as well. They were awake until about nine. He didn’t have a drink all night. We’ll take his photo to the Cecil and other nearby bars today and see if anyone can identify him.”
“Dead end there.” Brad sipped his coffee. “Where was the car stolen from?”
“Down the block from his house. The houses are close together, and no one has a garage. Street parking is at a premium.”
Brad reached for the crime scene photos. “Was the car locked?”
Sturgeon snatched the photos away before Brad could grab them. “He says so.”
“What did you find in the car? Fingerprints? Tissue? Coffee cup? Chip bag? Convenience store receipt? Bodies in the trunk?”
“Well, damn, why didn’t I check for those.” Sturgeon glared. “The answer to all is no. We were at the crime scene all night. We’ll process the car this morning. Now get the heck out of here. Unlike you, I have work to do.”
“About that.” Brad leaned forward. “Anything from the
